


What in Me Is Dark Illumine

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballad 39: Tam Lin, Blood, Case Fic, Chloe KNOWS, Dreams, F/M, Halloween, POV Chloe, References to Paradise Lost, Sort Of, Symbolism, TDN's 2018 Hell-oween Exchange, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 14:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16477502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: The first time she saw his wings, they were in Las Vegas.





	What in Me Is Dark Illumine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [petrichorishly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrichorishly/gifts).



> Part of The Deckerstar Network's Hell-o-ween exchange. My prompt was Las Vegas, teal/turquoise and bat/vampire. I hope you like it!
> 
> Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,  
> Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
> The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
> Of night and light and the half light,  
> I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
> But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
> I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
> Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.  
> Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven- W. B. Yeats
> 
> For at the end of seven years  
> We pay a tithe to Hell;  
> And I’m so fair and full of flesh,  
> I fear it be myself.
> 
> Tonight is Hallowe’en, Janet,  
> The morn is Hallowday;  
> Then win me, win me, if you will,  
> For well I know you may.  
> Tam Lin- Traditional Ballad

The first time she saw his wings, they were in Las Vegas.

Not for temptation, indulgence. No, a much different kind of sin: crueler, simpler. Murders—numerous and ritualized enough to be considered serial—that started in Los Angeles, but had come, as if drawn, to these meadows of steel and glass. The gold of their pulled back hair, the cerulean in their vacant eyes, stared back at her from the pictures on the bed. He perched on the edge, body turned toward her, but his gaze was fixed on the insufficiently secured door.

He had wanted to object, dissuade her from her pursual—his fears were painted so clearly on his face now that she’d seen the other one—but a single glance had silenced his words even before they came.  So, not protesting, but _there_ , watching her back, her ever-present shadow waited; a carefully controlled inferno that would release itself only on her behest.

The gossip rags had named their quarry the Vampire of Hollywood, though the supposed bite marks had been needle punctures and there was nothing to suggest the blood had been _consumed_ , merely drained slowly away, disposed of like so much _trash_. The first victim—a stuntwoman and roller derby queen—had been found on Warner Brothers’ lot, empty and sallow. He’d made his usual jokes and she’d pretended, as she always did, to be unamused.

The second victim—a former MMA fighter—had been unceremoniously dumped on the Boulevard. Forensics was thin on the ground, and his humor had died with the distinct blue-green of the dead woman’s eyes. The third—a personal trainer with long blonde hair—had cemented the pattern. The rest provided little new evidence but served as painful reminders of their continuing failure. The move to Vegas had almost been a relief; any shift in the script was good when they had _nothing_.

And so, here they were, in a hotel so far off the strip, so utterly unremarkable she couldn’t even remember its name. Officially, she was liaising with the LVPD; unofficially, she was making her presence known and leaving the chain off the door. She focused her attention back on the pictures, but there was nothing else to see. A frustrated groan caught in the back of her throat; she felt his eyes on her. He sighed, “This… _recklessness_ is understandable, if inadvisable.”

Her response was sickeningly familiar on her tongue, “I’m not being reckless.”

But he simply raised an eyebrow and continued, “Knowledge of eternal Judgement, it… changes a person. They become obsessed: with the state of their soul, with contemplations of eternity, with desired redemption for their sins, real or imagined.”

“I’m not—”

“I know you dream of Hell.”

And she had: labyrinthine corridors filled with ash and innumerable doors, fires that burned without light, darkness that moved like a living thing. Screams of the damned, besieged by every torture known, or else _his_ screams as he fell, radiant and fractured as lightning, cracking reality with the impact of his landing. She didn’t know if these visions—his fiery visage, twisted in familiar wry amusement as he ruled from an ebony throne, demons with rotting faces cackling from a fathomless pit, tongues of flame descending from the black and lifeless firmament, wrapping lovingly around him—were nothing more than nightmares, or something… _more_ ; crueler and far more frightening.

She blinked, trying to dispel the horrible images. The dulled gleam in his downcast eyes spoke of a pyrrhic victory, but her lip curled anyway, eyes narrowing, “If I’m being so… _rash_ , why don’t you stop me?”

His gaze caught on the pictures on the bed, “I can’t.”

“You _could_.”

He looked back at her sharply, “I will _not_ take your choice from you. Not again.” He turned away, resuming his vigil, but couldn’t seem to help but add, in a harsh tone that belied his words, “You needn’t worry, though. I’d raise war in Heaven before I saw _you_ in Hell.”

They lapsed back into the strange stilted silence that had reigned since… _since_. She wasn’t afraid of him, but the things he represented, the things he _was_ , were too much; she wanted the metaphors back. She’d run from the truth for as long as she could, but now that she was drowning in it, the only dry land was also the source of all that choking water. Eventually, having run out of files to reread and no longer able to stifle the growing wave of exhaustion that had overtaken her, she set the papers on the side table, flipped the light off and dropped back, fully clothed, into the pillows of the still made bed. She was asleep before her head hit the mattress.

_His eyes blazed with unnatural fire, but the flayed flesh of his hands was warm and comforting as he held her against him. They were dancing; the music—harsh and discordant, but inexplicably pleasant—seemed to emanate from the very air as he led her smoothly over a vast sea of gleaming obsidian. The subtle spice of his scent calmed her even as the music—and their dance—hastened. His steps were thunder, their turns a tempest, but there was no room for fear in his arms. Yet, as their movements became wilder, the ground split, shattering apart; he smiled, then, with vicious glee, his grip on her faltering, failing. She spiraled, alone, in the darkness…_

It was morning—or close enough—and the rising sun bathed the room in a soft golden glow. He was sitting exactly as he had the night before, frozen in place; his body still turned toward her in a protective gesture, his eyes still fixed on the door, unmoving, unblinking. As she raised herself to sit, his gaze flitted to her, but he made no motion to speak. She cleared her throat, “Good morning.”

He nodded before returning his focus to the door. She changed quickly, then went into the bathroom to do her makeup. She stared at herself in the mirror; beneath the fluorescent glow, the circles under her eyes were darker than she’d ever seen.

“You have to think about Trixie. I mean, it’s her favorite holi—” Her last argument with Dan.

“I _am_ thinking about Trixie.” How dare he presume she wasn’t; her anger was acrid as old coffee.

He’d scoffed, “You don’t think I’ve seen how you’re just going through the motions the last couple months?” His voice had softened, “Look, Chlo, I know that everything that happened with Pierce was… _bad_ , if… if you won’t talk to _me_ , just talk to _someone_ , please.”

Talking. What was _talking_ going to do about—she snuck a glance at the statue at the end of the bed. Linda had offered. _Maze_ had offered, but they didn’t… they didn’t really understand; it wasn’t the _knowing_ , it was…

She shook her head, reentering the main room; she grabbed her badge and gun off the bedside table, gathered her files, and pulled the door open. He followed her, silently, down to the parking lot, into her car.

The meeting with the LVPD was useless; their empty assurances made her feel like a victim’s family member, not a fellow cop. They would find him, _probably_ —they’d shared an almost amused look at her supposed _incompetence_ —before he killed anyone else. Just go home, they said. We’ve got it from here.

_Just go home._

So she took them to the Strip, half-heartedly gambling at the cheap tables, drinking olive flavored water in martini glasses—or straight whiskey, in his case—being apparent and obvious, and ignoring how terrible a plan this was. Not just because it was _needlessly_ dangerous—she shoved that annoying little voice down far enough she couldn’t hear it anymore. Why, even fitting the profile, would their suspect go after her over all others? There was no reason, she knew, but this was the best idea they had, besides _waiting_. And that was an intolerable thought, now.

“Here,” he pushed a plate at her, laden with the best a Vegas buffet could offer, “ _eat_.”

“I’m not hungry.” She returned her attention to scoping out a particularly suspicious looking lurker.

He settled back next to her, emanating disapproval. “Your earthly life still matters, you know,” he sniffed, “even if your soul is eternal.” She gaped at him. He shook his head, answering her unasked question, “I’ve seen this before.”

“I don’t…” she kneaded at her forehead, trying to fend off a rising migraine. “I always thought _this_ ,” she poked at the slightly sticky table, waved her hand at the mass of fanny pack bedecked and cheaply costumed tourists, “was all there was, and now I…"

He stared at his hands, “I imagine it was… _easier_ , before. I didn’t intend to so complicate your life.”

“Yeah, well,” she laughed bitterly, “can’t go back now, can I?”

“No,” there was something painfully final in his voice, “we can’t.”

“I…” she stood, head pounding, “I need to… bathroom.” He made to follow her but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I think I’ll survive without a guard for five minutes.”

He blinked at her dubiously, but stayed seated, arms crossed morosely.

She fell into a restroom stall, choking back sudden tears. She couldn’t let anyone, even _him_ — _especially_ him—know how badly she’d been sleeping, how thoroughly she _hadn’t_ been dealing with everything. He’d hardly left her side since this case began; honestly, had hardly left her side since she’d seen his other face. She wiped her eyes and tried to suppress a sob, but the small sound was amplified by the tile.

“Hey, are you ok?” The voice echoed from the adjoining stall.

“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine.” She absently flushed the unused toilet before stumbling out the door and over to the sinks. She splashed cold water on her face, hunching awkwardly over the basin.

The other woman’s steps came up from behind her. “Boyfriend trouble?”

“No, I…” she bit her lip, “It just… it feels like everything I ever believed might be a lie, you know?”

“Yeah,” she could hear the understanding in the other woman’s voice, “I had a… crisis of faith. Once.”

She huffed out a breath, “How did you deal with it?”

“Oh…” she chuckled, “It was simple. I just renounced my humanity.”

“You wha—” but before she could move, could even react, she felt a pinch on her neck, then nothing at all.

_He stood before her, hands clasped around a warm, ripe fig. He was whispering, slow and soft, “The gold in your hair for such sweetness you have never tasted?” The fruit was honeyed smoke on her tongue as the juices dripped from her chin, his fingers tangled in her curls. He spoke again, low and alluring, “The ocean in your eyes for a kiss?” And his lips were sweeter still than anything she had ever known, but then the bitterness of gall was in her mouth and the darkening veil wrapped around her mind and she fell, dull and ashen, into the chilling arms of Death._

Her consciousness rattled her brain as she woke, concentration weeping from her neck. She tried to move, but her limbs were still too numb to feel, too tired to move. She forced her eyelids open: the basement—and the sepulchral mustiness meant it couldn’t be anything else—was of rough-hewn stone interrupted only by a barred steel door.

There was a low laugh; her eyes focused unsteadily on the woman staring down at her. She smirked, but then sobered, “He will betray you, you know. He is eminently… _disloyal_.”

The words slipped between her ribs, stabbing at her, drawing out those moments when he’d hurt her, abandoned her, _broken_ her. She tried to swallow the fears rasping against her throat. “Who… who are you?”

“A demon,” her expression turned cold, “One that he left, _alone_ , in Hell.” She reached down, her fingernail stabbing where neck met shoulder. The sound of the door banging shut behind her echoed in the silence; and she was alone again, with nothing but her terrors and the slow, ceaseless drip of blood. She tumbled down, and farther still, back into the deep.

_She was walking in a quiet wood, surrounded by twisting brambles. She stopped, reached down and plucked a single rose, sanguine as the setting sun, and full with petals. And he appeared, watching her from between the grasping trees. A drop of blood from an errant thorn spilled from her finger, down her hand, her arm. “Why have you stolen from me?” his eyes seared with his wrath. She ignored him, bringing the flower to her face, breathing it in. “Why?” He was standing in front of her now, incensed._

_But she only shook her head, smiling in the dim, “I took nothing you did not freely give.”_

The door flew off its hinges, slamming into the opposite wall. She woke with a start, jerking against the handcuffs that bound her wrists together. “Chloe!” He ran to her side, pulling the needles from her neck. He brushed the hair from her face, “You’re safe, love.” She tried to speak, but her throat was tight and dry. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her, “Let’s get out of…” He choked, turned, “Agrat? What…?” He fell backward; she felt the blow as they landed, hard, against the concrete.

“Hmm,” she scoffed, “Not so powerful now are you, _my lord_?”

He panted, arms shaking, “I. Will. Destroy…” She reached down, impaling a long fingernail into his neck. He went limp around her.

“Oh,” the demon purred, “You’re awake. Well, can’t have that, can we?” And the dreaming took her again.

_He screamed, twisting in her grasp, flesh raw and fiery. The flames licked up her arms and singed her, but she merely clung tighter, even as the Queen laughed at their anguish, mocked her for her faith. But he had promised to never hurt her, had sworn on the sacred bonfires of Samhain—of the liminal half-light of that hallowed eve—that what pain she felt would be renewed a thousand times in love. And so, she held him to her, and let herself burn in him._

She woke at his cries, frantic as a trapped animal. Agrat had reentered the room. She forced her breathing to stay slow and deep, made her limbs lax and still. “I suppose,” the demon sneered from somewhere above her, “you’d like to know why I’m doing this?”

He laughed sardonically, discomfort buried in stately grace, “Oh, no, my dear. I know _why_. Your desires are… _obvious_. No, my question is, why now?”

“ _Cain_ ,” she hissed; she started pacing the small room, “He’s caused quite a stir downstairs.” She licked her lips with a slow rasp, “We’ve been waiting for him for _ever_ so long.”

“And what does that execrable creature have to do with anything?”

“He couldn’t stop raving about this… _woman_. Strong and golden haired with ‘eyes of polished turquoise’,” she sounded disgusted. “He was adamant that _she_ was the reason our Lord had not returned to us.”

“And you thought,” he growled, “that _killing_ her would get me to come back?”

“That _was_ my plan, until I discovered that she makes you vulnerable. _Mortal_.”

“So you can kill me. Well, congratulations, darling,” there was a horrible wrenching sound as he tried to clap his manacled hands together. “Only, why haven’t you done it yet? My death will not save you your punishment, daughter of pestilence.” He grinned so broadly she could hear it in his voice, “Where do you think I’ll go when I die?”

“Oh, I’m not going to kill _you_. Have you looked at her soul lately?”

“What are you…?” he shivered, rattling his chains.

“Guilt,” Agrat was overjoyed, “she is… awash in its savor.”

He groaned, “The murders.”

“Well, that was part of it, but there are so many sources of her shame; some newly planted, some,” she sighed happily, “already growing verdant. She’ll go to Hell, you’ll raise impious war in Heaven, and I will _finally_ have revenge on the Almighty Father who bade me to _submit_ to his first-made man.”

His tone was cold, “None of that will spare your life, my _former_ Queen; I’ll still kill you.”

“No, you won’t; not before I taste the blood of those celestial bastards. You are too fine a general to dispose of such an asset on the eve of war, and,” she shrugged, fabric shifting, “I don’t care what happens to me after that.

“Now, I think we’ve drawn this out long enough, don’t you?”

“If you touch her—”

“Ah, but she is damned,” Agrat leaned down to run a finger over her cheek, “She is _mine_ to—” But she chose that moment to act, snapping her foot up and into the demon’s side. She twisted, rolling unsteadily to her feet, hands still restrained; the needles ripped from her neck, clattering against the ground. She ran at the door, but it wouldn’t yield, sealed, as it was, with infernal script. “You cannot escape,” Agrat chuckled behind her, “and you cannot best me.”

And there it was: a plan, laid out in her mind with the clarity of dreams. She spun, feigned left, toward the demon, but then she darted right, throwing herself at him desperately. The chains that bound him were similarly inscribed as the door, but she ignored them. “Burn it,” she panted, blood freely trickling from her shoulder, soaking her shirt, “burn it all.”

“I… I won’t let you sacrif—” he cut off as she elbowed the approaching demon in the face, hissing at the wounds gouged into her back.

She collapsed against him; the last of her strength was extinguished, but she drew herself up enough to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to die,” she realized the truth as she spoke, “but I trust you. _Please_ Lucifer…” Her words were lost to screams as Agrat tore, again, into her. But then, out of the darkness, there was incandescence such that she had never seen before, and heat that overwhelmed first her nerves, and then her awareness as she let herself fall…

They were standing in the middle of an abandoned intersection, under the midnight stars. His wings—splayed out behind him as he held her—reflected their metallic light from within. Her clothes, and his, had burned away, but there was no pain, no weakness nor, even, the chill of newly November night. She took his hand in hers, entwining their fingers. He watched her movements, eyes soft and shining with tenderness. She smiled, then, her grip on him finally, _finally_ secure, “The fire in your eyes for a kiss?”

And his fire was freely given.


End file.
